Heart Burn
by hijklmnop
Summary: Petey's recalling another time, is all. He's parked on that bench, hands folded carefully in his lap - tightly, knuckles white, trying to think of anything but his surroundings, what he'd just seen.


Petey's recalling another time, is all. He's parked on that bench, hands folded carefully in his lap - tightly, knuckles white, trying to think of anything but his surroundings, what he'd just seen.

It's not that he can remember before meds or something, before craziness and disorders and pill names that end with a lot of -apines and -phenidates, because he hasn't known Gary that long. Petey's not even sure Gary's own parents have known him that long, sometimes, if that time even _existed_ or if he was just born into this world a raving lunatic.

What he _does_ remember, what he _distinctly_ remembers, at least he thinks he does - or maybe he's being optimistic, and maybe he wasn't around Gary enough during _Everything_, he can't bring himself to think of the few months before in anything but one word, capitalized, about eighty feet high and written in crumbling brick letters. Maybe he's glossing a little, absence and the mind growing fond or however that stupid phrase went.

There was just this one summer, the Smiths had been on vacation - the parents, at least, and incredibly surprising they had left Gary at home - he might have only been fourteen, but considering what boredom drove Gary's mind to-- Well. Gary did a scarily great impersonation of his father over the phone, Pete's mother had bought it, and for one, terrifying weekend, it was just Gary and Petey, four guest bedrooms in their house - Gary had two of his own - but the two still took advantage of the forty acres of backyard.

_Real_ men, they were, Gary kept saying with a surprisingly jovial grin as they pitched the tent, and then proceeded to live that up by making use of one of his ten or so video game systems inside.

It was nice, was all. Gary'd been having a good meds combination or something. Some stupid fighting game with ninjas and of course Petey won, Petey always wiped the floor with Gary, the great stupid button-masher. But when the pseudo fight had broken out over the finale battle, it wasn't some kind of master and slave situation, it wasn't war, it wasn't anything even approaching Machiavellian. It was just two stupid boys wrestling.

Gary let Pete _win_. Gary'd _laughed_. _Gary Smith_ laughing. There wasn't anything dark or sadistic or _nasty_ hiding behind it, it wasn't the laugh of some homicidal maniac trapped within a teenage boy, it was an honest-to-God real deal and.

Pete didn't know why he bothered remembering this stuff. This bench was uncomfortable. That wasn't even Gary, was it? Maybe that was really Gary. Maybe he wasn't all hard lines and jagged edges, sharp teeth and coiled snake skin. Maybe he was just a regular kid.

Or maybe Petey was delusional and he should've been in this place too.

This place was-- he hadn't lasted too long in there. Happy Volts wasn't anything deceitful. Happy Volts definitely had jagged edges, and if you weren't careful, you'd cut yourself on one. Pete had to fill out a form just to get past the main foyer, walk through a metal detector, and wait in the recreational room for about fifteen long minutes, watching an elderly man chew on a children's book, before they wheeled Him in.

And he used _Him_ so loosely, not his name, because that wasn't Gary, that couldn't have been Gary. It was some invalid trapped in his body. Patient number 583 had been sedated - another term that he used incredibly loosely. He, _Gary_, had to be propped up in a wheelchair, wrists unnecessarily bound to the arms - "Smith is _unstable_," they'd said, "a threat". Gary's head is hanging, listlessly; his eyes are glassy and unfamiliar, like a doll's. His fingers twitch, and Pete waits for some kind of recognition. Gary's not a threat. Gary can barely even raise his head to look at him.

That's not his friend, Pete can't handle this. He stands at once and walks out the door, briskly, can't even look back to see if Gary's watching. Pete's guessing not.

He tightens his fingers where he sits on this bench, breathing shakily and trying to garner enough courage to get back inside. The wind's rustling, one of his shoes is coming untied, and two orderlies accompany a patient in a johnny outside, half-soothing, half-annoyed as the guy doubles over and grabs for his knees in some kind of wild panic attack. Pete ducks his head. He hates this. This place just sinks into bones, digs in real deep and settles under skin before it starts trying to claw its way back out.

Petey doesn't want to think about what it's going to do to Gary. Petey doesn't want to think about that stranger inside that doesn't even have the will to sit up on his own, walk around like a human being. He thinks back to that summer, Gary toppled over and laughing, hands clapped over his face.

His chest hurts.


End file.
